


Sweeter Than Wine

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aliens, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Hand Jobs, M/M, Online Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-09-18 13:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9386873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: You don’t make it more than a few steps before Crankcase follows you out into the hallway. The moment you lock eyes with him, you freeze. And he freezes too, even thoughyou’rethe one who— He freezes too.But he’s also the first one to move again, just one more short step towards you, half reaching out for a moment before he lets his hand drop. He says, “Everything okay?”“Oh— Yes.” Mostly true. “I just needed some space.”He shifts backwards. “I can go—”You force yourself into motion and take a step forward. “You don’t need to leave.” One more step, and you’re close enough to reach out and touch him. “It’s fine if it’s you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I sure hope you've read MTMTE Revolution, because otherwise this won't make much sense. But it's a great issue of a great comic, so I highly recommend it!
> 
> And a warning for vague suicidal ideation-flavored thoughts near the beginning of this story, not _quite_ enough for me to want to tag for it, but it's very briefly in there.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/156070604166/sweeter-than-wine-spockandawe-the-transformers)

After Grumpybox’s— After _Crankcase’s_ ship clears the atmosphere, you don’t spend long on the bridge. It’s been a long day. It’s been a _strange_ day. Most of that is your fault, but— yeah. Now that you’ve had a chance to slow down and process everything that’s happened, you just. Once the rest of the crew is talking together, you slip out to find somewhere to sit. To readjust. You hadn’t really planned to still be around by end of today. Even if you’ve decided you don’t want to leave everything behind quite yet, you still don’t know what you’re going to do with yourself.

You don’t make it more than a few steps before Crankcase follows you out into the hallway. The moment you lock eyes with him, you freeze. And he freezes too, even though _you’re_ the one who— He freezes too.

But he’s also the first one to move again, just one more short step towards you, half reaching out for a moment before he lets his hand drop. He says, “Everything okay?”

“Oh— Yes.” Mostly true. “I just needed some space.”

He shifts backwards. “I can go—”

You force yourself into motion and take a step forward. “You don’t need to leave.” One more step, and you’re close enough to reach out and touch him. “It’s fine if it’s you.”

You’re watching his face, or you might have missed the way his mouth twitches upward at the corners.

For a moment, you think he’s about to take your hand, but then he hesitates, and steps around you and sets off down the hallway. He looks back over his shoulder at you. “I can take you to your room.”

When you come up beside Grumpybox— _Crankcase—_ he glances over and his mouth turns upward again. You shift your face just enough to be able to smile back at him.

He pauses in front of a door, and says, “We mostly just take whichever rooms are the least destroyed.”

“That’s fine,” you tell him.

But he shakes his head. “You haven’t seen the rest of the ship yet.” He types in code on the access pad, then when the door opens, you follow him inside. “You can use my room.”

You look around, taking it all in. You don’t especially care about alien ships or alien living quarters— But you care about where Crankcase lives.

He’s looking around too and crosses his arms. “I would have cleaned up if I knew someone would be coming.”

There are perhaps two cans of—of _something,_ you can't read the labels from back here— sitting on a shelf, and a few datapads lying next to a larger console. And he thinks that this needs cleaning? You shift your face enough to let your smile spread a little further and tell him, “It’s perfect.”

The only other thing in the room is single chair and a large metal slab that you assume is the Cybertronian equivalent of a bed. A berth? You ought to have done more research on their culture, you’d never manage to pass for one in person like this. Though in your defense, you’d never actually expected to end up in this situation.

Crankcase is still looking around the room with his arms folded, his mouth turned down, shaking his head. Even if you’ve never seen him before today, it’s still so much _him_ that you can feel yourself starting to relax, like you’re finally starting to find your footing.

He turns his head towards you, and there’s a half-second pause where both of you are frozen, just looking at each other. He says, “You can settle in. I’ll find another room.”

He shifts backward, toward the door, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you step after him, reaching out. You stop shy of actually touching him, but he’s paused, and his eyes are on your hand. “You don’t have to leave,” you tell him.

And he doesn’t. You’re more grateful to have him linger than you can say, but you don’t instantly find your footing with each other. You know you’re stiff and awkward. And you’re sure Crankcase still must not be used to— He was expecting to meet another Cybertronian, and you botched that fairly spectacularly. You’re itching to shift into something that will set him at ease, but the only Cybertronian you know well enough to pass for is Thunderwing, and you’re not going to make that mistake again.

You keep returning to that thought, as the two of you make small talk. It isn’t quite the same as it is online. Not when you’re here and seeing each other face to face. But he’s the same person you’ve talked with about, about _everything._ And so eventually, you say, “I upset you.”

Crankcase doesn’t even have to ask what you mean, which is just extra confirmation that you’re right. You still don’t _understand_ , but— You can’t get the memory out of your head, what his face looked like when he saw you. You don’t want to make that mistake again.

He sits heavily on the edge of the berth before he answers you. You take a cautious seat beside him, ready to move away if he doesn’t want you there, but he doesn’t lean away or ask you to go. It takes him a little while to say a word, and even then, he explains slowly. You think that all of this might have been easier to talk about online, through a screen. But like this, you’re able to reach out and take his hand.

And he doesn’t push you away. His fingers curl around your hand, and he evens shifts the smallest bit sideways, so your shoulder brushes up against his arm. He doesn’t look at you, but he stares at your joined hands as he talks.

By the end, you understand better. “I _hurt_ you.”

His hand is already held in yours, but you can’t help adding your other left hand to the mix. One hand palm to palm with his, his fingers laced with yours, your other palm against the back of his hand. Like this, your fingers strike too much contrast with his. You should have been minding your form, you’re going to make him uncomfortable.

When he glances up at your face, you take the opportunity to quietly shift your hands into something a little more Cybertronian. And your lower arms are a mistake too, you’ll need to shift those away when you get the chance—

And Crankcase is just as kind and patient as he is online, because he only pauses for a moment before he says, “You didn’t mean—”

He doesn’t quite finish the sentence before he stops, pauses, and looks down at your hands again. You can see the light in his visor flicker and reset. There’s nothing to see but your hands, just simple jointed metal, four fingers, completely unremarkable. Identical to _his_ hands, even. So you can be doubly certain you aren’t getting something wrong.

But he looks back up at you and says, “You don’t need to do that.”

You shift away your lower right arm, and as soon as you have to drop his hand, you’ll be able to shift away your left too. And you do your best to carefully consider your words. “I want… to be the person you’ve been speaking to online.”

His visor blinks and resets again. “But you _are._ ”

“ _More_ that person. I mean—” You gesture vaguely at yourself. Being able to lie, and to lie _well_ , that’s the single most important skill for an infiltration specialist to have. But it doesn’t change the fact that you lied to bring him here, and you lied to make him _care._

And you can see in his face that he isn’t following. You’d have thought that a transforming species would have known what you meant better than humans. Cybertronians _are_ fairly limited, but maybe you can make him understand—

You haven’t studied enough Cybertronians for this, you are embarrassingly unprepared. But you still manage a passable likeness of, of the brown one, whatever his name was. It won’t hold up under close inspection, especially in the joints, but it isn’t bad at all.

Or at least that’s what you’d have thought. But Crankcase is—shaking? His face is flat and blank, but you can feel his shoulder moving against yours, and you, you can’t have hurt him again, this is one of his _crewmates,_ what did you do wrong?

You manage, “Crankcase?” And you reach up, daring, to carefully touch his cheek.

He doesn’t move away. That’s something, at least. He reaches up, touches his fingers to his mouth. “Facial paralysis,” he sighs. “It’ll pass.” And then his hand moves to cover yours.

That little gesture leaves you frozen, afraid to shatter the moment—but the moment only lasts until he looks back over and you and laughs again. “ _Fulcrum,_ ” he says. “I can’t, I— This is… I can’t do this with you looking like that.”

You try not to let your emotions show through as you let your face slowly drift back to normal. You keep the appropriate number of hands, and try to keep yourself looking as vaguely Cybertronian as you can. If you aren’t supposed to look like— like Fulcrum, you suppose, then who are you supposed to be? If he’ll just _tell_ you, you’ll do your best.

But you don’t even get a chance to ask the question, because he’s still looking down from your face, over the rest of you. He glances up and says, “Really. You don’t need to.”

Reluctantly, you let the rest of the changes slide away. Past his hand, you watch the jointed metal fingers resting against his cheek slip back into your own claws. But that does mean you’re there to notice the corner of his mouth turn upwards, just the smallest bit, and you feel almost at ease again.

And that means the facial paralysis has gone. You move your hand just far enough to touch his mouth—no, _wait_ , you still don’t remember Cybertronian social norms, is this out of line? But Crankcase, he leans _into_ your hand, and that faint smile doesn’t disappear.

You can’t help glancing up at his head wound. “The paralysis. Is it because of—?”

He sighs again. “As far as we can tell. Not much other explanation.”

You do manage to stop yourself before asking why he doesn’t heal it himself. _Aliens._ Right. You can’t imagine what it must be like to be _damaged_ , so openly and deeply, and be unable to eventually shift the injury away yourself. Your other right hand comes up before you can second guess yourself, and your claws rest against his plating, just below the edge of the broken metal. “You can’t find a doctor?”

His eyes are on you, his hand still on yours. “For neural repair? No.”

You stiffen, but try to hide your distress. His brain is _damaged_ and he can’t even find someone to treat the injury? _“Grumpybox—“_

And he’s still smiling. Why is he smiling? He pats your hand reassuringly, and says, “I’m fine. It’s been a few years. I told you I got hurt on Nebulos, remember?”

Saying you got hurt isn’t the same as say your _brain was_ _damaged_ _._ Is something you might say. Another time. Because right now, it’s becoming increasingly hard to focus on anything but the awareness of Crankcase’s hand covering yours, still resting against his cheek.

Also, since you can’t leave well enough alone, you still say, “I wish I could be the person you’ve been talking to.”

And—ah. That’s the point that gets him to drop his hand from yours. Because you don’t know how to stop pushing.

But you only have half a moment to regret, because he only moved his hand to take two of your _other_ hands in his. And he says, “ You are _exactly_ the person I’ve been talking to.”

You shake your head. “But I—”

He’s looking so intently at you that you can barely stand to meet his eyes. “I mean it,” he says. “Everything I said online, I meant that too. I haven’t changed my mind about any of it now.”

You’re frozen. You don’t know how to respond to any of that.

Crankcase shifts so he’s facing you even more fully, looking straight down into your eyes. “All of this— _everything._ You’ve been doing so much to, to try to make me comfortable. Don’t pretend you haven’t. You’re just as considerate as I thought, just as caring, kind, _selfless—”_

With that, you finally manage to shake yourself into motion. “But _you’re_ the considerate one. Even though I lied, even though I’m imposing on you like this, even after Thunderwing and, and whatever his name was— And you’re still being so kind and gentle, just like you’ve _always_ been—”

Your fingers curled around his when you weren’t paying attention. His hands are still around yours, but you’re holding him just as tightly as he’s holding you. And you still have a hand on his cheek. After a quiet, breathless moment, you bring your last hand up to rest against his back.

Quietly, you say, “I’m glad you came.”

And you get to see that faint, quiet smile again, just for a short second, before he ducks his head. “I’m glad you asked me to come.”

You’re still trying to think of something else to say, some way to hold this moment without letting it slip away, something that does justice to what it feels like to be here, _with him._ But all those thoughts fly out of your head when he gently, carefully, lifts your hands, and presses a kiss to the back of each of your claws.

And— Again, you’re frozen, you don’t know how to think or speak or _move,_ you feel locked up from head to feet, you don’t think you could shift right now even if you tried. But you can’t let this pass without responding, you _can’t_. You force yourself into motion, and you manage to lean forward, just barely, so that your forehead rests against Crankcase’s.

He glances up at you, and you see his smile again for half a moment before he bends to kiss your hands and send you reeling again. You feel like you ought to shift yourself lips, so you can kiss him back. You would, if you could remember what lips felt like. It’s absurd, you have an example right here, right in front of you. All of your attention is on Crankcase, on these kisses, but you can’t manage to make the connection to what lips should feel like as part of you, you’re too distracted by watching him, and by the sensation of his mouth against your claws.

Even when he stops kissing you, he stays where he is, his head tipped against yours. You can’t tear your gaze away from your joined hands, can’t bring yourself to look him in the eyes. But you think he’s in nearly the same situation. And his hands might both be occupied, but you still have two to spare. You wrap your free left arm further around his back, so your hand curls around his waist. And your last hand is still resting against his helmet, but you let it slide down further, so you’re cupping the side of his neck. He’s still warm and relaxed against you, the two of you pressed close enough you can feel the hum of his mechanics through his plating.

You could stay like this for days. It still barely feels _real._ You mean—You always meant to find someone online that you could persuade to come to Earth. But you hadn’t expected to ever _care,_ and now you care _so much._

Crankcase moves first, but he only turns his head just far enough to kiss you. Your face this time. His lips press against the corner of your mouth. You still haven’t pulled yourself together to shift yourself any lips, anything even close to a Cybertronian mouth. But even then, he kisses you again.

And he’s still so _gentle_ with you, so careful you can hardly stand it. He’s so much like what you imagined from talking to him that you can barely process that this is actually happening. He drops one of your hands, but just so he can reach up, his fingertips just barely resting against your cheek. Your form is trying to slip away from you as you press closer to him, this is so much _more_ than you’d ever felt with anyone you’ve served with. But the way dire wraiths— you know better than to do do this with a non-morphic lifeform, and you take better hold of your form, push away the urge to shift your body into and through his.

But even if you’re going to remember your self-control, even if you’re absolutely not going to alarm him that way—There’s no reason you can’t communicate what you’re feeling to Crankcase in other ways.

Not words, you’ve already proven you can’t articulate this well enough to do it justice. Not to mention the way you forget how to speak altogether whenever Crankcase does something new. But you can touch him.

It’s difficult to nerve yourself into that first caress. But after that, it’s almost impossible to stop. You begin with his chest, that should be simple enough. And Cybertronian bodies—fascinating in some ways, just how many planes and angles there are to explore. You can’t look away as you trace over his chest, and you’re taken by the urge to trace out every last contour with your claws, to map him out so well that you could mimic him perfectly.

When your claws dip into the seam between his chest and waist, you can feel him pause against you, his lips just the slightest bit parted, just barely brushing against your skin. After a short, breathless moment, you trace that seam, and Crankcase presses further into you, his hand cupping your cheek, pressing soft kisses over your mouth, your cheek, your chin.

He drifts away from your face eventually, moving down your neck, out along your shoulder, leaving a careful kiss on every ridge. You get more daring, bringing more of your hands into play. You can feel him shiver when you gently knead at one of his tires, and you can feel the way his rhythm stutters when you feel out the delicate, exposed cables of his neck. You’re mesmerized, completely mesmerized, all you want to do is see what other reactions you can tease out of him.

It’s only when you slip a claw into the barrel of one of his guns and surprise a shocked, “ _Ah—_ ” out of him that you think to wonder if you’ve gone too far.

But before you can even begin to pull away, he’s already moving _closer,_ pressing against you, into that touch. He grabs blindly for one of your other hands, tangling his fingers with your claws.

And you’re still frozen, but you feel his mouth moving against your neck when he says, “You don’t need to stop.”

You’re so relieved you could almost laugh. But that moment of worrying that you’d done something wrong— “Tell me what to do,” you say. Then you pause for a moment and lean into him. “I want to make you happy.”

That gets you a full-body shiver from him, and a little noise you don’t know how to interpret. His hand tightens on yours.

But he doesn’t quite say anything. You know him well enough to tease online, but do you know him well enough to tease like this? You glance down at his face and decide to be daring.

“Crankcase— Grumpybox. I can’t make you feel good if you don’t tell me how to do it.” And at the same time, you let your claws just barely scrape against the inside of his gun barrel.

He shivers again, but you’re even more entranced by his single breathless laugh. He straightens, but only going far enough that he can reach for one of your hands. He takes it from where it rests against the outside edge of his tire, and moves it over to his chest, so your claws slip inside one of his slim, narrow vents. He takes one of your other hands, and puts it on his waist, right where his plates gap and you can just barely see exposed wires and cables. And all through this, he never drops your other hand.

And he asks, “What can I do for you? I—” The words cut off as your hand slides over his waist and you carefully brush your claws over the wires underneath his plating. He tries again. “I want to do something for you. Tell me what I can do.”

He is so considerate, so _kind_ , and you’re not going to impose on him by trying to explain dire wraith physiology. “I just want to watch you,” you tell him. “I want to look at you.”

For a moment, Crankcase is motionless, and you can’t read his face. Then he leans forward so you’re forehead to forehead with him, and he reaches up to cup your cheek. You _do_ want to watch, to look at him. But for a moment, you can’t fight the urge to shut your eyes and savor this closeness and contact, and you just sit here, being _with_ him.

That can only last so long, though. Every time your hands move against him, you’re so aware of every little reaction he has to those touches, the temptation to explore everything you can do to him is completely irresistible.

And he’s certainly feeling those little touches. When you map out the cables in his waist, you can feel every little twitch and shiver from him, and with his face so close to yours, it’s impossible to miss all those half-muffled noises. It only gets better when you let your claws shift just the slightest bit thinner, so you can press them even further into his vents. But the best reaction, the absolute best one, is when you add a second claw to the one already inside his gun barrel. He gasps and arches up into that touch, clutching at your hand and shoulder.

Of course, you can’t fight the urge to push further. You shift a third claw to add to the two in his gun barrel, tease at his vents. And at the same time, you let your hand on his waist drift even lower, until run into the edges of his hip plating. You’re already captivated by his reactions, but when you reach deeper into him and touch his hip joint, you get an entirely new response. He jerks under your hands and makes another quiet noise, but also, a plate in between his legs slides away under the rest of his armor.

What you knew about Cybertronians is just starting to come back to you. Interface. Spikes, valves. Not terribly different from some of the other aliens you’ve encountered, but you’d somehow never managed to put the pieces together connecting what you’ve been doing to Crankcase here, and the likely end result.

And Crankcase— “Sorry,” he says. It comes out a little strangled, but his hands are gentle on you as he leans in and kisses the side of your neck. “I didn’t— What do you need? What can I do for you?”

It’s the most charming thing you’ve ever seen. He’s so _caring—_ You suppose he must be, to agree to come meet you on an alien planet, just because you asked him to. But it’s one thing seeing it in messages, it’s another thing having him here, like this.

So you can’t resist teasing. “Are you apologizing for enjoying yourself?”

That gets you another quiet laugh. “But you haven’t—”

You know what he’s trying to ask. But the temptation to slide a hand between his legs and distract him, it’s too much for you to fight it. And when you touch him, the noises he makes are so lovely that really, you don’t have any regrets.

He has to try twice more before he manages a coherent sentence. “You haven’t gotten anything out of this.”

You lean into him so you’re forehead to forehead again. “I’m getting to watch you,” you tell him. “I’m getting to make you feel this way.” A quiet moment, just looking at him, taking in the expression on his face as he looks down at you. “That’s all I need.”

Crankcase shudders from head to toe, and finally lets go of your hand. He reaches up, his fingertips delicate on your cheeks, and turns your face up towards his. He kisses you so gently you can hardly feel it at first, just the most careful brush of contact.

It’s almost too much. You’re the one with your hands all over his body, slowly but surely learning how to take him to pieces, but that moment almost undoes you. You shut your eyes and hold yourself still, surrendering, until he finally pulls back. You don’t quite manage to meet his eyes, all you can do is tip your forehead against his again, and hope he understands what you’re trying to say.

You might not have studied Cybertronians as much as you should have, but you’ve had enough experience with aliens to know roughly what you’re doing. They’re not that different from humans when you get down to it. So when you reach out to take Crankcase’s spike in one hand and run the claws of another hand along his valve, you’re apparently doing something right. His hands drop from your face, but only so he can clutch at your shoulders. He says something that might have been a strangled, ‘yes’, but the way he spreads his legs and arches backward when you touch him is more clear than anything else.

His spike, that’s simple enough. But you also tease around the edges of his valve, watching his face, and just to be sure— You ask, “Inside?”

“Please,” he says. _“Please.”_

And when you carefully slide a single claw into him— This entire encounter has been one incredible moment after another. But the absolute most precious thing yet has to be the impossible mess he makes of your name.

You move your hand away from his waist so you can slide it around his back and hold him even closer to you. Cybertronian vocals weren’t ever designed for your language, but you wouldn’t have even known that was your name unless you were listening to it. You’re too charmed for words.

So you rest your forehead against his and hold him against you. “You can call me Cons4eva,” you tell him. “You’re fine.” You still have no lips, but you still brush your mouth across his, light and quick. _“Grumpybox.”_

You think for a moment he’s planning to say something, but then—You remember what _nodes_ are, and the moment you touch his, you can see whatever he wanted to say escape him entirely. “Cons— Cons4eva—”

You’re transfixed, watching him as you circle around his node with one careful claw. His hands are so tight on your shoulders it aches, and you can’t stop touching and _watching,_ and you can’t look away from the way he can barely even manage a single word.

He to recover. “Cons— Foreva—” But it slips away from him the moment you press a gentle claw to his node. He manages, _“Don’t stop—”_ And how are you supposed to say no to him? You press careful circles into his node, and all he can do is cry, “Foreva, please, _Foreva—_ “

You hadn’t been sure what Cybertronian climax would look like, but it’s impossible to miss it when it happens. You’re transfixed by the way his mouth falls open, wordlessly pleading, the way his eyes flicker and flare. He’s shaking, you can feel that, his legs spread wide and his hands still tight on your shoulders. His head falls back, and he arches hard, and you don’t stop touching him until the last shudders die away and he finally moves a hand from your shoulder to pull you away from his node.

He’s smiling when he finally meets your eyes again. You can’t look away from him, you’re so struck by the look on his face. Before you can second-guess yourself, you ask, “Is there anything else I can do? For you?”

He kisses you, once, and then reaches out to take your hand and guide it to his spike. It’s quieter, less frantic. His hand is over yours, setting a slower pace. His fingers are over your hand, applying gentle pressure, and when you mimic his grip, he makes quiet little noises and shifts against you. His free hand moves to cup the back of your neck, and he alternates between watching your hand on his spike and lifting his head so he can leave lazy kisses across your face. You don’t know how long you spend with him like that. Not as long as you’d like, because when he gasps, barely audible, and climaxes, you’re already regretting that the encounter is over.

But when his plating is finally back in place and he looks up at you, he’s smiling again, and that feels like victory. And the way he reaches out to carefully put his arms around you and hold you against him, that feels like victory too. Everything about this. Everything about the way he looks at you, touches you, talks to you. All of it is too perfect for words, and you’re still half-convinced it can’t be real.

You and Crankcase end up lying crosswise on the berth together, one of his arms under you, his other hand holding one of yours. You’re close enough to him to feel the heat from his plating, and hear a quiet little noise he tells you is his cooling fans. You’re still here with him. _Here._ And _with him._ It’s almost too much to take in.

The peace lasts until Crankcase pulls out his communicator, looks at it, and groans. For a moment, you think he might have to go back to his duties, and try to bite back the disappointment, but he only reaches over to show you his messages. Quite a number of recent messages.

You ask, “What’s a ‘Sherma Bridge’?”

“Nothing,” he replies. “It isn’t _anything._ I keep telling Misfire he can’t keep making up names for positions like that—”

You try not to laugh at how much he looks like his icon when he’s exasperated. “You should tell him we did that one already.”

He opens his mouth, pauses, and looks at you. And then he smiles. He starts typing up the message with one hand. But with he other, he reaches out, and catches your hand in his again. You move sideways, so you’re leaned up against his shoulder, watching him type. You let his fingers tangle with your claws as he sends the message. He gets a reply almost immediately, and the two of you stay just as you are, composing a response together. You hold hands as he messages his crewmates, and every time you look up at him, hes smiling at you. His hand is warm and secure in yours, his body solid and _real_ beside you, and with every passing moment, you’re more and more aware that you’ve never been this content in your entire life.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/156070604166/sweeter-than-wine-spockandawe-the-transformers)


End file.
